still waters run deep
by meanpancake
Summary: Constance knows things. Secrets. [Modern AU, Constance/Flea]


**Warnings** : Ableism (academia-related) and implied abuse (Constance/Jaques, Anne/Louis - mentioned, nothing explicit). No angsting.

* * *

Her mother's lips move in a flurry, her nose wrinkled and her eyebrows drawn together, and one of her eyes twitches. Her father looks exasperated, his moustache shaking slightly with every word he forces out, mouth never quite opening like in his usual speech, nostrils flaring. It's not a serious fight, Constance figures, since neither bothers to fake a smile in-between (for her sake, as they always claim) or goes completely expressionless.

Constance continues eating, watching her parents argue, thinking about nothing in particular, as she notices the shift in their faces. It's like their anger slowly (and simultaneously) fades and gets replaced with pleased conformity, and it happens within mere seconds. Now, they smile at each other, nodding, and focus on finishing their _soup_. Which is ridiculous, her parents are ridiculous, drama people par excellence, and suddenly they both look up and at her.

Oh. Well, she must've made a noise then. Awkward. Constance gives them a bright smile, trying to cover up the _You two are absolutely ridiculous_ and instead communicating an _I love you_.

Her mother drops the spoon, hurrying to sign her: 'Sorry, love, we were caught up in the moment.' Her father frowns and adds: 'Do you know what your mother said?'

'I guess you got into a fight over who's the most overrated writer. Again.'

They laugh (it's a beautiful motion, she doesn't need to hear their voices to know it sounds beautiful too), her mother shaking her head, when her father abruptly stops. He makes the sign, but Constance doesn't need to see it, recognizes the name from his lips alone. _Tolkien_. Constance grins. She knows exactly what her mother will say now ( _Kerouac –_ it's an argument they have literally every two weeks) and looks at her father instead, just to witness the incredulous expression on his face.

She snorts and eats her soup, leaving her parents to agree on disagreeing because that's how it will end. Like always. Family dinners may be repetitive, but they never get boring.

* * *

Jaques is in love with her, very clearly so, but Constance feels overwhelmed by his affection. _Trapped_. He tries to be how she wants him to be (rather how he _thinks_ she wants him to be), and it's just not working out. So she writes him a letter that qualifies as a break-up letter, she guesses, and with every line Jaques reads she can see his hope shatter. Underneath... there's bitterness and hatred and hurt pride. He tears the letter apart in a fit of rage, throwing the pieces at her, spitting a word into her direction – a slur, it has to be, even if she doesn't quite catch it – and storms off. Constance's heart beats too fast, way too fast, and she gets on her knees to pick up the paper snippets, closing her eyes for a moment. She can't help but feel relieved.

Later that day, her dad tells her that Jaques wanted to propose to her and had asked him for her hand. Like they were in the 18th century, and she was to be given away to the man bidding the highest. She lets herself be pulled into an embrace, feels his heart pounding almost as fast as her own, and then her father adds with a serious face: ' _I'm glad you're not with him anymore._ '

* * *

Constance sits in the unversity official's office, fighting back tears, as her mom calmly explains that the accomodations are not suitable for her deaf-mute daughter. It's infuriating, the inaccessibility of the learning material (they won't give her access to the professors' scripts because it would give her an advantage but also a disadvantage, and how will she partake in seminars and oral discussion if she continues her studies?), but what hurts most is the fact that they ignored her complaints and made her bring her _mother_ , as if she wasn't suited to make her point for herself.

 _Fuck them_ , she thinks, _fuck them all_.

Finally, the office person promises to make according changes for her, but when she leaves with her mom she starts to cry. Her mom pets her hair and takes her home, an angry line marking her brow. They don't discuss it, but it's clear to everyone: Constance won't return to university.

* * *

Anne is a kind woman, caged in a hostile marriage, and Constance is her... housekeeper, stylist, personal assistant. Her friend (and God knows, Anne needs a friend). She works 20 hours a week in the villa and attends Ninon de Larroque's private tutoring in her free time. It's a privilege, it's _such_ a privilege to be able to stuy again, in a friendly environment, and Constance swears to make good use of it.

She has rented a room in an apartment that belongs to a certain d'Artagnan, who works for Anne's husband, Louis. D'Artagnan fancies her, and she likes him well enough, so they go out a couple of times. After she tells him that she'd rather stay friends, he smiles one-sidedly and agrees. No grudge, no hurt pride, no negativity towards her. So unlike Jaques, who is a distant memory by then.

She visits her parents on the weekends, and it's a routine she is happy with.

She _is_ happy. Period.

* * *

Constance knows things. _Secrets_. It's because people don't pay her much attention – and it's not even deliberate, it's often mere ignorance, like they forget about her and, honestly, being the _cleaning lady_ doesn't make people any more attentive towards her presence. They also think that she doesn't know what's happening around her, that she doesn't follow conversation. The thought makes her smile to herself.

Anne has an affair with Aramis, a member of her husband's security. Louis meets a woman, regularly, and Constance once saw her and _knew_ immediately that she was pretending to be somebody else. She knows that Louis' two closest advisors are trying to manipulate him, and that their hatred for each other is, at times, just a fascade. A game. And Constance plays along.

They don't know that she's in the middle of it, collecting secrets, harvesting knowledge, providing Anne with vital information. She's Anne's lifeline (Anne who learns sign language, grateful for everything she can tell her now).

' _Thank you._ '

' _We are friends. Don't ever worry about it._ '

* * *

Flea comes crashing into her life, and not in a metaphorical way. One moment Constance is sewing like usual, the other a sudden vibration makes her look up just to see a woman - broad grin, messy blond hair, tight suit – cowering in front of her on the floor. Glass is sprinkled around her.

It's weird, because her first instinct isn't to grab the next thing to defend herself with, but to help her up. Surprisingly, the woman searches her pocket and hands her a piece of paper. It says, in a careless hand: _I'm Flea. Sorry, this isn't my most elegant work. I've been watching the house, so I know you're not much of a talker. I'm here for a bet. I won't take anything, I just gotta make it outside by the front door. Please don't snitch on me?_

Constance considers it, her heart pounding ridiculously fast, before she takes out her phone. She feels Flea's eyes on her, and types in: ' _You're demanding for an intruder. I'll give you three minutes, then I'll alert security.'_

Reading the screen, Flea smiles light-heartedly and shrugs as if in apology. As she takes her phone, Constance doesn't protest, waiting for her to finish typing. Flea hands her the phone back, blowing her a kiss, and running off.

 _'Thanks, doll. Text me, yeah?'_ Followed by her phone number. Constance blushes, shaking her head, trying not to grin, and decides to give Flea – what kind of name is that, anyway? - an extra minute. To make up for the time spent reading and typing.

 _I'm ridiculous_ , she chides herself but can't help feeling... justified in her action.

* * *

Back home, in her room with d'Artagnan, Constance doesn't know what to do. Text Flea? And if she does, how does she know it's not a fake number and that she won't be a) disappointed (what?) or b) embarrassed. And, even _worse_ , what if it's her real number? She buries her face in her pillow, wriggling in frustration and anticipation. She knows d'Artagnan is laughing – he's way too gleeful, given the situation -, but she'll forgive him. This time.

After another hour of discussing the matter back and forth, Constance sends d'Artagnan out of the room (' _Get pizza and beer. I'll be needing it._ '), and sits down on the bed with crossed legs.

' _Win that bet?_ ', she types and knows it's a ridiculous – always _ridiculous_ , it's the motto of the day - thing to ask, since she knows nobody caught the mysterious person who didn't take anything but left a broken window. She presses send with closed eyes. Mere seconds later she feels the phone buzz in her hand.

' _Took you long enough, doll._ '

Constance feels herself blushing – and doesn't mind it a bit.

* * *

They're dating. As in actual-going-on-dates but with a bit of adventure and adrenaline. Flea is constantly challenging her, daring her, _provoking_ her, and the truth is that Constance absolutely loves it. Loves her. She doesn't indicate so, because it's only been weeks, but it's like that's clear anyway.

They make a great team, too. Flea loves secrets. And her, Constance likes to think.

Tonight, Flea seems a bit off. There's a nervousness to her that's untypical, and she tries to mask it with quick smiles (and quick touches, as if to distract Constance), but it gets harder with each passing minute. Constance is about to do confront her, when Flea takes her phone. ' _I have to tell you something_.'

Constance tilts her head, slightly, rising an eyebrow. Okay? Her heart should stop doing that jump-and-run thing that it does now. It's fine. Everything is fine.

Flea blushes, beginning at the tips of her ears, – what? - and then says in clumsy sign language: ' _Will you kiss me, please?_ '

Constance laughs, feeling the laughter rumble in her chest, and pulls Flea close. She smells like herbs.

They kiss. It's pretty damn perfect.

' _I love you,_ ' Constance signs afterwards, smiling all warm inside, and Flea doesn't understand, looking positively churned up too, so she types it into her phone: ' _Well, looks like you need to keep practising sign language, if you want to know my secrets. Doll._ '

(And Flea does.)

* * *

 **End notes** : I'm not deaf-mute, so if I've been disrespectful or offensive in any way, please tell me and I'll make the according changes.


End file.
